


Plan β

by Code16



Series: Have To Offer [6]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU--with powers, Beating, Episode: s03e21 Beta, Gang Rape, Gun Kink, Object Penetration, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 22:02:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10885806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: "'The two of you will stay with me and make sure that Decima holds up their end of the deal. Understood?''Whatever you want, Finch. We'll be there.'"John makes sure that Decima holds up their end of the deal.





	1. Offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No rape in this chapter.

_ Remember what I said.  _ _ She’s all that matters. _

Grace comes to the barrier and he ducks under to meet her. Precursory examination now that he’s close - no visible major injuries, no explosives strapped to her. The rest can wait for not-here. In his mind’s map, some branches close off.  _ Not that, not that _ . Lead him to the next crossroads. 

“Get her out of here now.” He hands the identity package over after. If the map’s steps from here go wrong enough it won’t matter - Decima’s had plenty of time to leave another team in wait behind them; unless Root shows up after all there’s nothing much to be done for it. But one plans for the best, sometimes. Or at least for the one more day.

He watches the Decima team across the bridge - the way their hands go near their weapons, the way they arrange themselves. There’d been a branch, of course, where this all goes off quietly, the rare kind of plan where nothing goes wrong (except for how everything’s wrong of course, a proof with premises that stand against each other, like taking a bribe to throw the earth into its sun. But that isn’t the same). Decima choosing to honor their bargain, not taking the moment to take out nearly all their enemies in one, retake their leverage. Enemies and leverage who they outnumber more than two to one just here, with no one to tell of the betrayal. But it was possible. (Might, perhaps, be possible still. But he’ll know that with the rest, soon.)

(They can’t have been told elimination at any cost - not with their so important prisoner in their hands, not going in not knowing what the other side would come with. Up to this team’s discretion, then, in some way. He can work with discretion.)

Harold is still standing by the Decima car, one of the hitters patting him down, rolling up a pant leg. John wants to close his eyes a moment. He’d been hoping Harold wouldn’t have to see. But he can’t risk time, now.  _ All that matters. _

He stays by the car, because he isn’t risking on the answer till he’s asked (if what he gets for this is a hail of bullets, he’ll need somewhere to duck. However not long that’s going to help). Keeps a hand near his gun and pitches his voice.

“We’ve kept our end. You keep yours. Everyone goes home.” For a moment, the words hang in the air - Harold’s eyes jerking up suddenly wide, the Decima team exchanging nonverbals, looking from him and back. 

He can feel them catch.

 

He doesn’t wait to be called forward, doesn’t look back. Steps through the barrier again and follows Harold’s steps across the bridge. (Tries not to look at Harold, focus on the Decima team. But his own training betrays him. Even peripherally, he can’t not see - two men suddenly pushing Harold into the car, Harold trying to remain in place, turn his body where he can’t his head.  _ Take him away _ , John finds himself thinking. Because he’d do near anything against that, but it’s inevitable now. Helpless. But this still isn’t.  _ Turn away, Harold.  _ He doesn’t have to see this.)

The Decima team is coming out to meet him. He supposes a cozy gangrape in a nice car with tinted windows can’t really be what he expected. (“ _ I'd like you to avoid violence if at all possible.”  _ There is, he thinks, at least some interpretation in which this counts.)


	2. Payment, part 1

He doesn’t make it to the other barrier before their paths come to intersection. (He heard the other car as it drove away, saw it from the corner of his vision again. Exhales in near painful relief. He’s gotten what he’s asked twice over. Now it’s his part.)

The Decima team stops again in front of him. Don’t cross the final feet yet, don’t reach out, don’t call him to cross. (His brain has long since done a count. Eight - that’s, that’s not too bad. Hardly - hardly any problem.) (He recognizes a few of them, can’t help the twist in his stomach. People he’s been shooting at don’t tend to like him very much, after. And if he remembers them from DC full well, there can’t be doubt that they remember him.)

The one in front looks him over from head to toe (some parts more than others). “Get on the ground.” That’s - not very unambiguous, and his gift isn’t helping. He kneels, lets it happen with poor balance enough to hurt. At least this way it’s easy to knock him over, if he’s gotten it wrong.

”Strip.” Still the same speaker, though the others are edging around, now. John does, quick efficiency, pile of clothes on the pavement. It’s cold - the air, the road under him. He tries not to shiver; for now, at least, succeeds. Tries to palm one of his lubricants, leave it closer. The man closest to him steps on his wrist, pressing it into the road.

“None of that.” John lets go (the boot rests on his fingers for a few moments before lifting). Considers his chances at tempting them with his mouth. 

“Get up.” Now they knock him over. He doesn’t bother checking if he can catch himself. Lands hard, falls again when another one of them kicks him onto his back. “Spread your legs.” A shoe grinding down between his legs isn’t close to the worst thing that can be done, from this position. That doesn’t mean it’s particularly any fun. He grits his teeth, then can’t quite muffle a sound when the grinding turns into a kick. 

There’s more where that one came from. They don’t constrain themselves to one part of him. He’s allowed to cover his head a bit - maybe they like him cringing, maybe they think his face looks a bit nicer without too many bruises. When they’re done (or at a pause, at least), one of them nudges at his ribs. “You got a gun?”

“Yeah.” Apparently they’re not standing on honorifics.

“Give it over.” He crawls over to his clothes. (They all have their own guns, of course, one or two apiece and that’s just what they brought over. And it’s not as though there’s any threat of him trying to shoot them, now. But that isn’t the point.)

“Hands and knees.” Not much mystery in where this was going. He doesn’t crane around, doesn’t try to look, stays where he’s put and feels cold metal pressing against him. 

Guns are worse when he hasn’t been fucked already, worse without preparation. Too unyielding, and the shape is wrong, and the front sight isn’t going to tear him if they don’t want it to but that doesn’t mean it can’t feel like it will. He can’t move beyond flinching, because they don’t want him to. Can’t keep himself quiet again; doesn’t know if it’s because they want to hear or - because.

“Well that’s not getting anywhere.” The new kick to get his attention isn’t necessary - escapism doesn’t tend to be an option, when he’s doing this. That matters about as much as his opinion. “You have a silencer?”

“Yeah.” There’s not been too much of a toll on his voice, yet.

“Hand it over.” At least, John thinks, pavement rough again under his palms, his knees, the shape’s a bit more right, now. Not the end, of course, reminding him thoroughly why metal right angles don’t tend to be prime choice for penetration. And not the way they fuck him, shoving till he can feel the front sight again, fast but not anything near over quickly. He drops his head between his arms, bites his lip. Gets a kick in the face and a shoe planted in his ribs. Whoever’s latest wipes blood off the gun against his thighs. Pushes it in again.

“Turn over.” Half sitting on the ground, half braced on his hands - his ass makes its objections known about being weight-bearing so soon. Shoe soles trace lines of his body, not pain but reminder of it. Potential.

“Open your mouth.”    

There is, predictably, not much to be said for having a metal cylinder shoved down one’s throat repeatedly. He gags on it a few times, chokes (not every time. Either the Decima guys like variety, or different ones of them want to see different things and his ability is doing its best). (The next time they want him talking is going to be much more of an adventure.) 

His eyes are watering enough that it takes him by surprise when one of them tosses his clothes at him. “Get dressed. You’re not that pretty.” He’s allowed to get his shirt on but not button it all the way, get his pants on but not past above his knees. “As you were.” His gun, John can see, has been tossed on the ground a bit away. One of the Decima hitters is drawing his own, and oh, John remembers him. “Anyone ever tell you about the golden rule?”

**Author's Note:**

> As in this verse in general, the premise of this story is that John has the power to ask people for things they wouldn't have done otherwise but are on some level open to, and in return he owes them sexual satisfaction however they might want it.
> 
> [Episode quotes source](http://transcripts.foreverdreaming.org/viewtopic.php?f=195&t=12115).
> 
> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


End file.
